Page 103 of Massimo

It's having our staff beaten in front of me.

It's my father holding a gun to a guard's head—his only sin was he was too nice to me—and forcing me to whip the guard's back in order to save him. And then my father shooting him in the head afterward, anyway.

The list and the shame feels endless.

Tears blur my vision. When Massimo reaches for me, I don't flinch or hide. I tumble into his arms.

"I've got you, sweetheart," he whispers, pulling me out of the tub and wrapping me tight to his chest. "I got you, and I'm never letting you go."

His words make sobs wrack my frame, and he cocoons me in warmth and safety. He carries me to his bed and holds me tight, alternating between whispering gentle, loving promises and dark, violent promises of ending my father.

Light and dark.

Monster and savior.

As I fall asleep in his arms, my world has shifted again, and I know and trust that Massimoisa monster.

Mymonster.

Chapter 42

Massimo

FeelinglikeIfinallyhave some insight into Nova's tormented psyche, I'm more confident that I won't accidentally trigger her.

Once Pepe Russo—he told me his name undersevere duress—spilled his first secret about the Mancini Princess and saw how ravenous I was for any information, he cracked and spilled everything he knew, hoping it might earn him some mercy.

It did not.

But the fucking bastard told me everything he knew.

I think back to the bloody pile of flesh that was the remains of Russo after I was finished. He was the proxy for my rage against Mancini, and I made him pay in full, and then some.

Vito had witnessed my undoing. My brother hadn't commented, but I know his questioning is coming—and soon.

But I'm not focusing or worrying about that at the moment. I feel sick, knowing what Nova was made to endure.

And what we learned about her mother's death.

Things that I'm certain Nova has no idea about, nor will she ever.

She comes out of the walk-in closet wearing one of my dress shirts. The sleeves are rolled multiple times over, and the hem falls to her knees. She's adorable as hell.

Scratch that. With her mussed-up, creamy blonde hair hanging loose and her doe-like brown eyes, she's utterly gorgeous.

"Come here," I rasp. I'm sitting in my bedroom at a small round table that has the breakfast tray Jerome brought for us.

I realize my words could be construed as an order, but I don't apologize or rescind.

Her chin lifts, a spark of fire dancing in her eyes. The left corner of her delectable mouth twitches, like she’s fighting off an impish smile. Then she walks toward me, and I know it’s not because I ordered her to—she’s coming because she wants to.

She’s beautiful, and I see that bloodthirsty hellcat in her. And I’m here for it. One hundred fucking percent.

As she approaches, I open my knees and she steps between them, and I settle my hands around her waist. Her hand lifts to my hair, almost like it's the most natural thing in the world to run her fingers through it, but she hesitates. I silently encourage her to trust her instincts with me.

Then she threads her fingers through my hair. Very few people see me casual and ruffled, but with her, it's my favorite way to be.

With her dressed only in my shirt, and at her touch, my cock is rock hard, tenting my sweatpants. She looks down at it, and it jerks, wanting more of her attention.

---